Rage Against the Latrine Ch. 26


I had planned this to be the final chapter, but when this instalment got to 20,000 words, I had to split it up. There are four more instalments.

They have all been uploaded to Literotica and will drop when they are approved.

* * * * *

In the weeks and months after Natasha and Bitches Against had bagged their first Number One record, at Christmas, life had continued at a weird pace. My fiancée and I adopted a female-led relationship around domination and, apart from my office when I attended a video call, I rarely wore clothes in the house or garden.

She paddled or spanked me several times a week; she pegged and urinated over me daily and we expanded our chest of bedroom toys considerably. Natasha became insatiable, and I joked it was “pregnancy hormones” as her overactive and depraved nymphomania barely stopped thinking about sex or kink.

Monika and Jamie had also returned from their Christmas break with renewed libidos. My Friday night sessions continued with the hot teenager, who liberally wielded her strapon dildos and expanded my submissiveness. One week, her friend witnessed the dominatrix peg me in a short kilt, and another, we had a “slumber party” with her “boi”, and four of his gay friends. We watched a Bruce La Bruce film with plenty of explicit homosexual sex scenes, and when the movie finished, the seven of us used almost two boxes of condoms. Much to Natasha’s glee and Monika’s amusement, I had become a submissive, bisexual bottom with a ravenous sexual appetite.

For Jamie’s birthday, Monika and I bought him lingerie from a trans-inclusive retailer, and the non-binary exhibitionist paraded around their flat, flaunting their lithe body in the translucent garments, before we took the promiscuous slut out for the evening to a wonderful restaurant I knew. They finished it as a star performer in their own gangbang film, with two dominant women and three bisexual men.

One Friday night, after a very passionate bout of cunnilingus and pegging, the dominant teenager passed me her tablet and showed me an erotic story. We sat in her bed as I read the well-written tale about an older man and a young dominatrix. It was highly arousing, and it turned me on as I digested page after page. 

“That’s mine,” she admitted. “It’s only chapter one, but all of them are doing brilliantly on the site. I’m up to Chapter Eleven. The sub is going to his first gangbang in the next instalment!” She chuckled as her hand gently stroked my erect cock under her duvet. “Nats said it was brilliant.”

“It is,” I replied, and saved the link on my phone for my journey home. “Is it based on me and you?”

“A bit.” She smirked. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, of course not. It’s very flattering. Especially the description and size of my manhood. You’ve been very generous.”

She giggled and kissed me on the cheek, whispering in my ear. “Your cock is bigger than Jamie’s right now. They’re back in their cage.”

When I visited Monika’s flat on Friday nights and Saturdays, Natasha often entertained Faye and Nessie; her best friends loved to stay with her, and she confessed she enjoyed having guests at home when I was away. It was the mark of a healthy relationship that we could spend time apart without feeling jealous. 

The band received considerable royalties for their Christmas song and even more when their previous albums saw additional air play because of their fame. Faye said they cashed three times more money in December than they had over the past seven years combined, and this sudden influx of cash provided opportunities, which they argued over. Nessie found the solution; an underground nightclub in Watford had recently closed its doors, and the girls visited the premises, interested in investment. They offered a decent sum, which the owners accepted, and the plans for the Punk Rock Cafe took hold; the soundproofed venue furnished the rockers with rehearsal space during the day and it promised a generous income when open in the evenings. They planned to make it a go-to destination for hard rock enthusiasts, while also giving smaller bands exposure.

Personally, it was good to see them investing their windfall in their future and their business plan was robust and well thought out. When she was not a dogsbody and merchandise saleswoman on tour, Nessie worked in the Punk Rock Cafe as a supervisor. Together with their new manager, Roberto, eight barmaids, and two barmen, the venue reopened with a blaze of publicity in late February. I went to the opening night, and Nessie never stopped working and managing the bar. I had only seen her selling branded stock at the gigs and as part of the sexual games we played, but in the band’s hospitality venture, she oversaw the staff and kept the operations running smoothly. The submissive minx acted with authority.

Faye and her new partner wanted to buy their own property and found a one-bedroom flat near their proposed Punk Rock Cafe. It was modest, but they had the income for a mortgage company to approve their application, Maltepe Escort and the sale progressed quickly. Outside of work, Nessie was the same dirty, submissive slut; she kept Scott as her “Straight Fuckbuddy” and his home was not that far from the small abode she shared with her lesbian sweetheart. One Sunday afternoon, she came to visit us with a plugged arse and obscene markings daubed over her skin. Her overnight rendezvous with her lover had started after the late night Saturday shift and had continued until the early morning as her casual sex with Casanova and his friends had taken turns in using her until dawn. 

When the band practised and the club was not open, she made herself available and Natasha shared video footage on the band’s private WhatsApp group of the young woman being sexually tormented. One of the inexperienced barmen confused his shifts and came to work four hours early and saw Nessie blindfolded, stripped, tied to the bar and with a vibrator fastened to her cunt. He accepted Faye’s offer to “fuck the slut” as his boss had her umpteenth orgasm of the day.

Natasha had already arranged for my favoured builder to renovate another of the spare bedrooms into a nursery. She had refused to ask the ultrasound technician what gender our baby was, so we had the room decorated a neutral yellow shade. My fiancée also wanted us to get a nanny. She did not want to leave the band, but she required space and time to practise and to go on tour. We discussed it, and she reached out to Suna, the childcare assistant. The punk rock chick was unhappy on the South Coast and we travelled to meet her one Sunday. This – as we explained – was not primarily a sexual arrangement. We needed to employ someone to look after our newborn child when it was born, and to assist my soulmate as a new mother, not to be compelled to provide cunnilingus to my bisexual partner. Although – as Natasha reiterated – she would not discourage any carnal activity in the house.

Suna accepted the offer to become our Nanny, with a start in August, a fortnight before Natasha’s due-date.  

With all this personal expense, I leapt at the opportunity to join a FinTech startup. Alongside a generous package as Chief Technical Architect, I had options to receive shares. The founder was an ex-colleague of mine, and he hoped that his new company, dynamo, would be a bridge between the stock exchanges and end users. Work was busy and the stresses from managing multiple relationships with demanding companies took its toll. I needed my kinky escapes more than ever, especially when I had to speak with potential clients. I was not a natural salesman.

Bitches Against won several gongs at the smaller music awards, and I attended the most prominent of them, hosted at Earls Court in early March. The industry body had nominated my fiancée’s band in the “Single of the Year”, “Best Rock Act” and “Best New Artist” categories and my lover rented six rooms in a budget chain hotel a short distance from the venue.

The girls hired a flatbed truck to deliver them to the indoor arena; whereas most acts chose costly limousines or expensive cars, Bitches Against used a beat-up twenty-year-old boneshaker and then posed for pictures in front of the decrepit vehicle. It encapsulated their aggressive punk reputation perfectly.

The ceremony was an incredible experience; superstars from music and television idly chatted to the band. A children’s TV presenter and Maddison did shots in the bar before the presentation and the loser, the bubbly innocent from CBBC, had to go commando for the rest of the night, which given her flowing gown had two long slits to her waist, was not an inconsequential forfeit.

Three veteran rock legends congratulated the band on their success, with one claiming that it was “fucking awesome” that a “proper music act” got the festive top spot, and Natasha cooed at the praise from the distinguished musician. My fiancée was so enamoured with the unexpected acclaim that I suspected she would have given the renowned icon a blowjob in the disabled toilets if he had asked.

Unfortunately, the girls lost out to established artists for the Single of the Year and Best Rock Act awards, but when the host read out “Bitches Against” for the Best New Artist accolade, the table erupted into a frenzy of excited cheers, shrieks and yells. 

Camera bulbs flashed as the five women strode to the stage and collected their stylish trophy, with Faye and Natasha saying a few cheeky words of thanks. It felt other-worldly. I had followed Natasha and the band across the UK, admiring and adoring them for their high-energy music, and my journey had led me to the centre of London at the most important date in the musical awards calendar, cheering my fiancée for collecting the recognition they were long overdue. 

I had to wipe my eyes as she stood on the stage, basking in the congratulatory applause from the distinguished guests. My phone did not stop vibrating in my pocket as family and friends messaged me. 

The Anadolu Yakası Escort Christmas Number One made them famous, but the award cemented the band’s place in history. They were illustrious, starlets and idols, guaranteed to have offers to play at festivals. We cheered and watched the rest of the awards ceremony as the band took selfies with their figurine before we stumbled into an after-party. The nightclub, a short taxi-ride away, was an exclusive venue for the musical acts and a renowned DJ provided the atmosphere. 

After a short time, we shuffled back to the hotel; I was glad to leave the fashionable destination as I felt on display as we partied. The tabloid paparazzi snapped us exiting, and it was not the fun, anonymous life we had. 

The bar inside the hotel was busy; several attendees in the audience of the awards ceremony had stayed in the same establishment, and a live music venue nearby had finished their late night set. Revellers recognised Natasha, who gleefully signed autographs for her admirers before the band seated themselves at a table. 

“Just come with me,” she whispered after we had both finished our first drink. Several fans had joined the award winners to chat, and the raunchy, fun-filled chatter had given way to a couple of drinking games. Natasha kissed me on the lips and led me out of the bar and to a ground floor room in the new annexe section of the hotel. Her hands touched my flanks as she unlocked the door to the disabled-friendly bedroom and guided me inside.

“This isn’t our room,” I replied. “We’re on the second floor and…” She put her finger on my lips. 

“I know. This is our special place. But I want something,” she cried and pressed her mouth to mine. We kissed and my pregnant fiancée embraced me, navigating me backwards. She pulled my jacket from my shoulders, discarding it to her left, and unbuttoned my belt. Instinctively, I broke our embrace to untie my shoes and kicked them to one side, as my unfastened trousers fell to the ground. I stepped out of my socks and suit slacks.

Natasha was in heat as I pawed at her punk rock outfit, and she guided me backwards.

Into the bathroom. 

The wet room comprised a tiled floor, with a central drain, low toilet, sink, and shower. “I want to give you my piss,” Natasha giggled and picked up a plastic bag on the closed lid of the seat. Two handcuffs on a long metal chain that she looped around a handrail so the rings dangled onto the ground. 

“I’ll just strip off,” I muttered, and Natasha’s palm slapped my chest.

“Get on the fucking floor as you are,” she spat, and when I lay on the cold beige tiles over the drain, she grabbed my hands to fasten my wrists to her restraints. My limbs rested on the ground, but when I moved my arm, the chain, through the handrail above me, forced my other hand upwards through the taut metal links.

Natasha photographed me in my predicament and then discarded her flimsy lingerie underneath her black skirt. I watched her squat over me, rubbing her clit with her left hand. She pressed her jewelled finger inside her cunt, fingering herself as I stared at her shaven mons, splayed snatch, and puckering anus. 

I wanted the woman I loved to squat further, and press her femininity into my face. I desperately needed to run my lips over her clit and taste her arousal. My cock tented in my white underwear as her excited pussy was inches from me. But Natasha hadn’t come for an orgasm. She chose to defile me, and as I stared up at her, a stream of honey yellow piss splashed from her cunt. I closed my eyes and opened my mouth as Natasha’s warm pee fell from her exposed snatch. 

Musky, acrid and vile. And delicious. Her elixir was intoxicating as I swallowed mouthfuls of her waste, like I always did. The taste reassured and excited me. The smell had become my happy place and the feel of the warm humiliation soothed and aroused. I loved her degradation, as the fluid bounced from my cheeks, lips, hair, and chin, soaking into my white shirt. I stared at her wondrous cunt as her stream slowed, and she smiled at me as she stood up.

“Don’t go anywhere,” she chuckled.

“Natasha,” I squealed. “Where are you going?”

“To the bar, silly. But we’ll be back shortly. Piss Boy. You’re going to drown in pee tonight,” she promised. Her shoes clacked on the tiles and when she removed the key card from the holder beside the door, it deactivated the lights, submerging the room into total darkness. 

I could not see a thing. I smelt and tasted piss. My skin felt cool from the drying liquid, and I heard a television in the adjacent bedroom, but time had scant meaning. I could sense very little, and had to lie in the puddle of pee, soaking into my clothes. 

The bright lights flashing into life overhead followed the sound of the door unlocking, filling the room with intense white illumination. I blinked as the lithe frame of Paula stood in the doorway. The tattooed guitarist, with her vivid green hair and wicked İstanbul Escort wit, held a bottle of beer as she ambled over to me. “Natasha loves you so fucking much if she’ll do this for you!” 

The lesbian pulled her leather trousers to her knees and squatted over me, forcing her cunt to a couple of inches from my nose. She placed her chunky boots on either side of my head and I inhaled her musky scent before she released her bladder, jettisoning watery piss into my face.

My cock strained the confines of my boxer shorts as the lissome, hairless lesbian urinated over me. She squatted as close to me as she could manage, spraying as much of her bitter nastiness into my mouth. I eagerly gulped the tepid liquid, sniffing and enjoying the piquant aroma of the lead guitarist. 

Then Maddison perched her bottom on my sodden face as she forced her cunt against my eager lips. The inked musician groaned as my tongue explored her slippery pussy, and I flicked her clit until her thighs shook. The blonde punk sighed as she straightened her legs and discharged a torrent of strong, yellow pee onto my skin. The surge flooded my mouth, my nostrils and my hair as my eyes watered and my heart rate lurched. 

Maddison had waterboarded me with her urine. I gulped a mouthful of her intensely pungent flow and my throat burnt with the rancid stream of piss. But it kept coming. The tattooed wildchild took an age to empty her bladder, soaking my clothes and face as the dominant punk rocker defiled and degraded me. And then she left without saying a word.

Faye, Nessie and Yasmin did likewise. The band’s submissive slut doused the bottom of my white shirt and underwear in her weak, pale effluence, but Faye’s full-bodied stream made my eyes water once more. 

The band debased me, using me as their toilet once more. My body shivered through their liquid waste, hugging my wet garments to my skin. Every drop of piss that fell from the six women was a tonic to my shameless arousal. I loved them drenching me in their pee and abusing me. I adored the domination of the punk rockers and worshipped them for their brutal mistreatment. They could do no wrong.

Natasha returned a little while later, holding the hand of an unknown girl. The petite, brown-eyed young woman, with a black and neon pink crop top and shorts, giggled when she saw me, restrained and marinading in piss. “Oh, my…” she muttered in a South London accent. “What the…”

“You wanted the full Bitches Against experience,” Natasha sniggered and looked at me. “Hannah discovered us ’cause of that fucking video in Bristol.” The young woman swayed in the doorway, surveying the scene. Her gaze was a mixture of incredulity and curiosity, and she stroked her chocolate-coloured hair behind her ears as she licked her lips.

“So, what do you do?” She asked.

“We piss on him. Keep your boys in check or they take fucking liberties.” Hannah’s hands scratched her exposed midriff as a smile crept over her face. We watched Natasha hike her skirt to her waist and squat over my head. “You get yourself comfortable and unload. You’ve pissed like this at festivals, right? Cover the pervert and go.”

“Aren’t you engaged to him?”

“Yes, and… He’s a guy. A fucking reprobate. You need to show boys who wears the trousers.”

I sighed, waiting in suspense, as my eyes focused on her on bewitching snatch. Her muscles quivered and a short jet of piss fired from her splayed pink, coating my face and chin. “That’s mad,” Hannah squealed, but the bizarre scene excited rather than repulsed her and she eagerly took Natasha’s place when my fiancée’s bladder had run dry. The stranger pulled her shorts, tights and underwear to her knees and waddled to put both feet on either side of my waist. She scrunched her body and sighed as her pee sprinkled from her lips.

I could barely see them; her rosebud winked at me as she covered my belly button in warm, bitter urine that splashed over my sodden shirt. She giggled as she stroked herself free of piss drops and washed her hands in the sink opposite. “That’s crazy,” she muttered.

“Keep your bitches in line,” Natasha replied. “And your life is much easier.” She promised, and the dominant women walked away from me without muttering another word.

Neither did Nessie nor Faye. Or Natasha’s next guest – a mixed-race slender woman in her mid-thirties with a navel piercing and long black braided hair. Zara’s slit rested on my nose, and my tongue enthusiastically probed her clit before her champagne splashed over my flesh, covering my skin with her harsh, peppery piss.

The band brought eight strangers to defile me, including three guys. Hannah and a new friend returned on their own, using the keycard which Natasha had presumably lent them, to cover me in their ivory-coloured piss. The bar must have done good trade with the frequency of the visitors, and I even had to wet myself, covering my saturated white underwear with more fluid. 

The room stunk of urea. My hair, skin and clothing reeked of pee, as the sadistic band members had wickedly defiled me. Nessie was the last person to use me and the submissive pressed her clit into my soaked face and rode my tongue until her thighs quivered. After her climax, she squatted over my sodden briefs and emptied her bladder over them.

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